


Sweet as a Peach (ringed with) Bruises Green and Gold

by raiining



Series: Sweet as a Peach [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Fingering, M/M, Porn, dom!Phil, minor leather play, sub!clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't see how this can work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet as a Peach (ringed with) Bruises Green and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to desert_neon for the super speedy beta, the C/C strike team for title and grammar help, and everyone who commented and asked for more. This is for you!

"And who do we have here?"

The gun runner in the fancy shoes gives Clint a courtly bow and a lascivious look. Phil's hand tightens on his hip. “This is my sub, Clint Francis. Clint, this is Mr. Santoro, a businessman of some renown.”

Clint smiles. He knows it looks forced, but Phil's assured him that's okay. He doesn't have to be comfortable here. “Mr. Santoro, yes. I've heard a lot about you.”

Santoro winks. “All good things, I hope?”

Clint thinks of the automatic weapons sold to terrorist cells. “Phil speaks highly of you,” he says instead.

“I'm sure he does.”

Phil and Santoro share a smile. They make small talk for several minutes until Phil gives the weapons dealer a nod and directs Clint away. “You're doing well,” he says when they're out of earshot. His voice is quiet but full of approval.

It's probably for the cover, but Clint still takes comfort from the words. “I'm just glad you're here.”

Phil's hand encircles his wrist briefly, a quick, reassuring squeeze, and then withdraws. “Ms. Olivier,” he says, catching the eye of a tall, imposing looking woman standing by the bar. “Phil Jackson. It's wonderful to meet you at last.”

Clint resists the urge to sigh. They've been circling the ballroom for thirty minutes now. He wants to say they've been the longest thirty minutes of his life, but that isn't exactly true. He's had torture sessions that left him less exhausted, though, and they have at least another hour of glad-handing to do. 

They're undercover on a fact-finding mission for S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil is posing as a weapons dealer trying to break into the big markets and Clint is his playing his arm-candy. His cover is that of a young sub from the country, unused to the glitz and glitter of the fancy hotel they're staying at. Phil's job is to attend the contract auction being held the next day, and Clint's is to be his backup if things go wrong.

It's tiring in a way that waiting on a rooftop isn't, but Phil had insisted these were skills Clint needed to learn.

“You're a level four now,” Phil had said, managing to sound proud and cautionary at the same time. “If you want advanced combat lessons and pilot training, you need to learn this, too.”

That had been the end of it. Clint wants to fly a plane. He never thought it'd be possible, has always assumed he'd be too stupid to learn, but Phil is pushing him to try for the things he really wants. 

“If you give up before you try, you're no further ahead,” Phil had told you. “You're more than just a guy with good aim.”

Clint is trying to believe him. He wants to show Phil that he's right, that Clint is worth the chance taken on him. Tonight is the first step towards that. Clint's going to master the art of espionage if it kills him. 

It just might. 

The dom Phil is talking to shakes Phil's hand while undressing Clint with her eyes. Clint grits his teeth and tries to smile. _'Radial g is the horizontal component of lift,'_ he recites in his head to keep himself calm. _'When you pull harder on a turn, indicated on your accelerometer and referred to as “indicated g”, you are increasing the load factor._

Flying a jet had better be worth this.

“Such a pretty sub, Phil,” Ms. Olivier tells him, eyeing Clint openly. “Where did you find him?”

“Scrubbing tables at a bar in prairie-land, if you can believe it,” Phil laughs. He squeezes Clint's wrist again. “It's his first time at one of these things. He's a little nervous.”

“I can see that,” Olivier says, winking. Clint resolves to ask Phil if he can shoot her later. “I wouldn't let him out of your sight. He's too pretty by half.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,” Phil tells her. He reaches over and flicks Clint's collar. “He won't be getting far.”

Clint plasters a smile onto his face. He fucking hates the collar. It's wider, thicker, and heavier than the collar Phil had gotten him one month into their new arrangement. It sits lower on his throat and there's a heavy, silver-coated D-ring attached. 

The worst is the name etched on the silver plate at the front, though. It says “Jackson” instead of “Coulson” like it should. 

Phil had fussed over it back at the suite. He kept readjusting the sit of it, aligning the ring, and asking again and again if it fit okay. Clint had twitched under his hands. “It's fine, Coulson. Leave it alone.”

Phil's eyes had narrowed. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Clint had told him, shifting his shoulders. “Can we get going, or what? We're going to be late.”

“The party don't start till I walk in,” Phil had said, so deadpan it took Clint a second to catch on. He'd laughed.

“Come on, you dork,” he'd said, smiling as Phil reeled him in and kissed him.

That was hours ago, though, and now the wall that Clint had built is crumbling. It had hurt so much when Phil took the collar off. A sick prelude to how this, one day, is going to end. 

He's not good enough for Coulson, will never be, no matter how much he pretends. _The larger the radial g vector, the better the turn performance_ , Clint thinks desperately, trying to ignore how much that hurts. _As you can see in Figure 9-3, in a purely horizontal turn, the greater the AOB, the greater the load factor to maintain effective lift._

“And this is Mr. Geneva,” Phil says, drawing Clint's attention back to the room. They've left the helpful Ms. Olivier and have circled again, ending up near the rear set of double doors that lead into the ballroom. “Mr. Geneva, this is my sub, Clint Francis. Clint, Mr. Geneva is a business associate of mine, he deals in – ”

“Very kind of you to introduce us, Mr. Jackson,” Geneva interrupts with an insincere smile, “but it's not necessary. You see, Clint and I have met before.”

Clint blinks. Beside him, Phil is frowning. “I'm sorry,” Clint says, because he's good with faces but there have been so many over the past hour. Had he met this man in the elevator, perhaps? Or by the bar? But no, he's been by Phil's side the entire time. “Where... ?”

Geneva chuckles. “Perhaps 'met' is too strong a word. I was the silent backer for a mutual acquaintance of ours, a Mr. Farnsworth.” His gaze hardens when he sees the name ring a bell. “Sadly, he is no longer with us.”

“Sadly,” Clint echoes, thinking back. Farnsworth had been – what? Three years ago, maybe four. A small time dealer who'd struck it big. He'd hired Clint retroactively, trying to clean up a mess that had gone so far south, it'd qualified as Antarctica.

Clint hadn't been very helpful to him. 

_Shit._

Geneva smiles. “I see you remember the name. Farnsworth is dead, but the issue of his money is still in question. Or, I should say, _my_ money. Do you have it, Mr. Barton?”

Phil's eyes narrow. “It's _Francis_.” 

Geneva rolls his eyes. “Please, if you don't realize the fish you've netted, Jackson, you're either an idiot or a fool.”

“I know that whatever Clint was before, he's mine now,” Phil says. His voice is cold. Clint swallows, because Phil has _no idea_. “What kind of money are we talking about here?”

Geneva's gaze narrows. He stares at Phil. “Two million dollars.”

“What?” Clint interrupts. “It was _not_ – ”

“Clint, stay out of this,” Phil orders. He doesn't even glance over, having locked eyes with Geneva. “I'll handle it.”

“Bullshit you will,” Clint splutters. “I can take care of myself.”

Phil rounds on him, his eyes as sharp and hard as the tips of Clint's arrows. “Are you questioning me?”

Clint meets those eyes and swallows. “I...” he glances around, suddenly remembering where they are. Clint licks his lips and lowers his eyes. “No.”

“What was that?” Phil asks, his voice cold.

“No, sir,” Clint repeats. He feels ten inches tall.

“That's right,” Phil says, and turns back to Geneva. “I'm sorry, you were saying?”

Geneva's eyes are narrow, but his lips have curled into a thin, evil grin. “I was saying that someone owes me money. Will that be you, Jackson?”

Clint makes a noise in the back of his throat. Phil's hand around his wrist tightens, and then sharply yanks down. Clint grunts, then goes, folding to his knees besides Phil's high-polished black shoes. He bites his lip to keep any further sounds in.

“Yes, of course,” Phil goes on. “Two million, you say?”

“That's right. Do you prefer cash or credit?” Geneva sounds smug.

“Neither, of course,” Phil huffs. “You know I don't carry that kind of cash on me. Obviously you have predicated this conversation with another goal in mind. What is it?”

Geneva squints, but the irritated conviction in Phil's voice is unmistakable. If Clint weren't so mortified, he'd smile. 

“Very well. As you know, the bidding for the weapons contract will begin tomorrow. I want it. I have two serious competitors – Mr. Santoro and Ms. Olivier. You will them taken out of the equation. I don't care how.”

“Do you want them killed?” Phil asks. He sounds completely calm.

“You do have the famed Hawkeye under your thumb, or on your payroll, I don't care which. Killing would be acceptable, but it's not necessary. I just want them gone.”

“Very well. The bidding begins at noon. That gives us eleven hours. I assume you want nothing traced back to yourself?”

Geneva smiles with all his teeth. “You assume correctly.”

Phil nods. “Very well. This will discharge Clint's debt in full.” His tone leaves no room for brokering. “We do this job, and then he's clear.”

Geneva obviously wants to argue, but one look at Phil's face stills him. “Fine,” he agrees. “This job, then done. Do it right and you'll never hear from me again.”

Phil nods. “We'll meet you before the bidding begins at noon, then. Have a good night, Mr. Geneva.”

Geneva holds his eye for a beat, then agrees. “A pleasure, Mr. Jackson.”

Phil smiles thinly. “Of course.”

Geneva leaves. Clint stays on his knees and waits, daring a look up at Phil when his hand comes to rest on Clint's head. “Sir?”

Phil is watching Geneva go. He's mingling in the crowd again, smiling as if nothing has happened, as if he and Phil were just having a friendly conversation while Phil's sub waited politely for them to finish. Clint shifts once on his knees, then stills.

“I am so angry with you right now,” Phil says, almost conversationally.

Clint feels his stomach drop. Phil _sounds_ angry, his voice is flat and emotionless in a way Clint's never heard it before. He thinks, longingly, of the collar with Phil's real name on it waiting for them in their suite. He knows he's never getting it back, now.

It's funny, Clint thinks as his stomach rolls, he'd known he'd screw this up, but he'd honestly thought it'd take longer than this. Looks like his streak is undamaged. It hasn't even been six months.

Five months, two weeks, and three days, actually. 

“That discussion will have to wait for another time, however,” Phil goes on. “Do you have any idea of how we can convince Santoro and Olivier to leave without killing either of them? We could, of course, but I'd prefer not to.”

Clint forces himself not to beg. He has no pride where Phil is concerned, but he knows better than most that begging never works.

“I could distract Santoro,” Clint offers. He hates it when dom's pant after him, like he's some kind of prize, but he'll do it for Phil. “He couldn't keep his eyes off of me. You could sneak into his room and see if he left anything incriminating around.”

Phil's hand tightens in his hair. All he says, though, is, “Good idea. Can you keep him distracted for twenty minutes, do you think?”

Clint doesn't want to think how, but he'll do anything Phil needs him to do. “Yes.”

“Good. I'm going to walk us towards him, create a scene, and then steal his keycard. Your job is to keep him here until I'm done.”

Clint nods. He can do this.

“Good,” Phil says. He catches Clint's eye and holds it. “Ready?”

He's not. He wants to stay here, on his knees in front of Phil, until the end of time. He fucked up, and Phil's going to leave him, but right here, for now, he can pretend. 

Only his job is to let Phil do his. Clint can give him this, if nothing else. He closes his eyes and nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Phil says. He tugs on Clint's hair to indicate he should stand. Clint climbs to his feet and Phil gives him a moment to let blood flow back to his feet before taking his wrist and steering him into the crowd.

It doesn't take long to find Santoro. The weapons dealer is holding court with a few minor players, dispensing advice and accepting drinks in turn. Phil steps up to the bar behind him and orders a gin and tonic, before leaning over to hear what Santoro is saying. 

He passes Clint a bill, so when the drink comes, Clint pays for it. He's turning back to Phil to hand it to him with the other man moves. Clint knows he's done it on purpose, but he can't help but cringe when Phil knocks his elbow and the drink spills all over Phil's suit.

“Aw, shit, sir. I'm sorry.”

Phil glares. Tonic is dripping down his tie and onto the floor. “Sorry? You're _sorry?!_ That's wonderful, Clint. I'm glad your sorry. Excuse me,” he says to the group, his tone icy. “Apparently, I have to go and change.”

Clint knows he's acting, he does, but he can't help but hunch his shoulders when Phil brushes past him. “Should I...?”

“No, thank you, Clint. I think you've done enough to help tonight.”

Phil's voice is like ice, sharp and biting. Clint flinches. “Yes, sir.”

Phil leaves, brushing against Santoro as he goes. Clint catches the flash of a keycard, there and gone before anyone else could have seen it. 

Clint turns back towards the bar. He doesn't need to dig deep to feign chagrin. Santoro is there, having shaken off his admirers. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I mean – yes,” Clint says. He ducks his head, as if embarrassed. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”

“That's all right. It was clearly an accident. I'm sure it won't even stain.”

Clint laughs hollowly. “I hope not. I think he likes his suits more than me, most days.”

Santoro smiles at him, for all appearances earnest. Clint feels the brush of a hand over his hip, though. “I'm sure that can't be true. You're much prettier than a few pieces of clothing.”

Clint doesn't have to fake a blush. He's not used to being lauded for his beauty. Maybe Phil had been onto something when he'd chosen Clint's outfit for this evening. 

Clint feels a pang when he remembers Phil laughing as Clint tried on clothes, stepping in close to help him with the buttons He brushes the scene away with a near physical act of will. “Uh, thank you,” he says to Santoro.

“You're welcome,” the gun dealer says, smiling. His gaze is heavy. “You know, maybe you should enjoy yourself, show Mr. Jackson exactly what it is he's brushing away.”

This is why Clint prefers to be up high with a sniper rifle. He's not good with people. Even though flirting with Santoro is what he's supposed to do, it still makes his skin crawl. “Uh, sorry, what?”

Santoro's touch to Clint's upper arm is anything but subtle. “Do you want to dance?”

The quartet is playing a quiet waltz in the corner. Several couples still dot the floor, but less than there was an hour ago. The meet-and-greet is starting to break up. Negotiations will begin in earnest tomorrow and it's already almost two o'clock. 

“I'm not very good,” Clint warns, trying to figure how much more time Phil needs. Another ten minutes? Fifteen? Damn, he wishes they been able to wear comms on the op. They're too obvious, though.

“I won't try anything fancy,” Santoro replies, taking Clint's wrist and leading him to the dance floor. Clint hesitates, but he can't see anything else to do. He follows reluctantly, trying to paste a smile on his face when Santoro takes his hand.

Clint's not a _bad_ dancer. The circus had taught him rhythm, after all, and he knows how to move to the music. He's never danced to anything like this before, though. It's slow and classic-like, and somehow manages to _sound_ expensive. Clint does the best he can, moving where Santoro places him, but he knows he's stiff.

“Relax,” Santoro purrs. He's pulled Clint close, and his mouth is right next to Clint's ear. Clint shivers. It's in revulsion, but Santoro doesn't know that. He grins and grips Clint tighter. “There we go.”

Clint's wondering how much longer he'll have to endure this when Santoro looks over his shoulder and grins. Clint swallows. He's already turning around when something grips his arm and spins him about.

“What _exactly_ is going on here?” Phil demands. He's wearing a new suit and looks livid. His eyes are narrow and his mouth is firm. Clint wants to fold to his knees and beg forgiveness, but Santoro just grins. 

“We're dancing, Jackson, that's all. Nothing sordid.”

“Really,” Phil spits. He glares at Clint. “Does my collar mean nothing to you?”

Clint honest-to-god whimpers. “Sir...”

“Don't you 'sir', me,” Phil cuts him off. He rips Clint's arm away from Santoro and grips him firmly about the wrist. “I think we have some things to discuss in our suite. I won't forget this, Santoro. If I lose my bid tomorrow, I'll be supporting Olivier instead.”

Santoro grins. “Olivier is a fool, and I don't need your support, Jackson.”

Phil glares. “We'll see about that,” he growls, but turns and heads for the door. Clint flounders along behind him, his wrist caught in Phil's angry grip.

“Sir,” he tries. Phil's holding him tight enough to bruise.

“Not now,” Phil growls. He leads them out of the ballroom and towards the elevator doors. He punches the button angrily. Clint bites his lip. He keeps quiet all the way to their floor, opening his mouth only when the door has slammed shut behind them.

Phil holds up a hand before he can say anything, though. He takes something that looks like a pager out of his suit pocket, and presses the button on top. After a moment, it blinks green.

“No listening devices,” he explains. 

Clint nods. Now that he's allowed to say something, he doesn't know what. “I'm... I'm sorry, sir.”

Phil's face is blank, his eyes angry. “What are you sorry for, Barton?”

Clint flinches. “Uh, for... for...”

“That's what I thought,” Phil growls. “Strip.”

Clint blinks. “What?”

“I said strip, Barton,” Phil repeats. “Don't make me tell you again.”

Clint nods and swallows. He hesitates, then raises shaking hands to his shirt collar and starts to unbutton it. He could safe-word out, of course. He knows Phil would honour it. It would mean leaving, though, and Phil hasn't kicked him out yet. Clint had been so sure that was where this was going. 

Maybe he wants to wait until the op is over, but whatever – Clint will take what he can get. If it's only one more night, than it's one more night he thought he'd never have.

He swallows and concentrates on doing what Phil told him to do. His fingers skid over his clothes. He's wearing a silk shirt with more buttons than a shirt should have and it takes too long for Clint to undo them. He knows Phil can see his fingers shaking, the faint tremor he can't control. He tries to take a deep breath, but it doesn't help. He feels lightheaded, dizzy.

There's an undershirt, of course there is, and then his pants and underwear. It all falls to the floor and, for once, Phil doesn't make him fold it neatly. Instead, he steps closer. “I'm going to take the collar off. Red, yellow, or green?”

Clint tries to hide how badly his heart is breaking. Even a fake collar is better than no collar at all. He's not going to beg, though, not for something that doesn't even have Phil's real name. “Green,” he rasps. 

Phil undoes the buckle and slides the collar off. Clint's truly naked now. He shivers as Phil steps back. He stays where his is while Phil goes to their luggage and opens the false bottom, exposing their alternate passports, guns, and a box Clint's only seen once before.

His breath hitches. “Is that...”

Phil doesn't say anything until he's opened the box and retrieved what was inside of it, then comes to stand before Clint again. “Red, yellow, or green,” he asks.

Clint's eyes are focused on the thin band of silver. There's only a single hinge. Phil had it made to spec.

“Green,” Clint breathes, falling to his knees. “Oh, Phil. Green, _please_.”

He holds still while Phil fits the collar back around his throat. The welcome weight is a relief, and Clint has to blink several times when it’s fastened.

Phil gives him a minute, carding his hands through Clint’s hair. When Clint masters himself and looks up, Phil meets his eyes. 

He still looks stern, angry and tense, but there’s desire in his eyes now, too. “Hands,” Phil says. “Wrists crossed in front of you.”

Clint swallows and obeys. He loves having his hands tied. Phil knows this, but instead of reaching for the cuffs they packed in their suitcase, he takes off his tie instead. 

Clint bites back a groan. This is even _better_. The tie is silver and black with purple accents. It’s stark with harsh, bold lines, and it fit Phil’s cover personality enough that he brought it from home. Clint loves it because it’s been around Phil’s neck all day. It smells like him.

He crosses his hands at the wrist and Phil loops the tie over and around. He doesn’t knot it, but pulls it tight, using the free-hanging ends to pull Clint’s arms up over his head. The movement is sharp, jarring, and tips Clint forward until he braces himself against Phil’s thighs.

The tailored suit does nothing to hide how aroused Phil is. “Do you want this?” Phil asks, shifting his groin right next to Clint's face.

Clint groans and turns his face into the pants. He can feel the delicious hardness of Phil’s cock through the fabric. 

Phil pulls up on his arms. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Clint moans. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“Show me how much,” Phil demands. He holds the ends of the tie with one hand, reaching down with the other to undo his zipper and pull his cock out through the slit of his shorts. He smears the head against Clint’s lips, leaving a trail of pre-cum behind. “Suck me, Clint.”

Clint moans and opens his mouth. He takes Phil inside, hollowing his cheeks, trying to get as much of Phil’s cock into his mouth as he can. 

“That’s good,” Phil breathes. “Just like that. Show me how much you want it, Clint.”

Phil keeps his hand on the base of his cock, squeezing slightly. Clint sucks him as best as he’s able, his balance thrown off by Phil’s tie, still holding his arms suspended above his head. He rocks back and forth on his knees, bobbing his head on Phil’s clock. Phil uses his own hand to keep Clint where he wants him, pushing or pulling his cock into and out of Clint’s mouth, interrupting Clint’s rhythm. 

Phil doesn’t want him sinking down into subspace, Clint realizes. His brain wants to go, but Phil keeps him on the edge. 

Eventually, Phil’s cock is shiny and slick-smooth. Phil pulls Clint off by wrenching his arms backward. “Get on the bed,” Phil orders. His voice sounds rough. “Hands and knees. I want you to prep yourself with the lube on the pillow.”

Clint nods frantically. Phil drops the tie and Clint shuffles over to the bed, keeping his head down as he braces his arms on his tied hands. His cock, full and hard, bobs awkwardly as he moves.

He climbs up onto the bed and fumbles for the cold, tasteless lubricant the hotel puts next to the mints on the pillow. He rips the packet open with his teeth, and then smears it as best as he’s able on his fingers. It’s difficult with his hands tied, but he manages. He flips himself onto his back and lifts his hips in the air, letting his legs fall apart. Reaching down to his ass, Clint rubs the slowly-warming lube over his hole.

Phil watches him from across the room. His cock is hard, angling up towards his stomach, but he’s still fully dressed. He waits until Clint looks up and meets his eyes, and then slowly, deliberately, starts to remove his clothes.

Clint’s breath hitches as Phil’s fingers dance over his suit. The cut is more severe than his usual clothing choices, but it works for him. 

First the jacket comes off. Phil hangs it carefully in the hotel closet, adjusting the lapels, while Clint breaches himself with one finger. As if in encouragement, Phil moves on to the shirt, removing his cufflinks. He reaches up to his neckline and flicks the buttons off all along his chest. His gaze is dark and heated. Clint sucks in a breath as he carefully adds a second finger. 

He stretches himself, scissoring his fingers into a V, while Phil moves on to his pants. He fingers the black leather belt, then undoes the silver clasp and pulls it out from the loops. Clint’s breathing deepens as he watches Phil’s hands move on the black leather, and Phil’s eyes narrow in response. Clint fumbles for more lube, leaving a dripping trail along the bedsheets, but succeeds in slicking himself up and adding another finger.

Phil keeps the belt in hand as he undoes his pants and hangs them carefully next to his jacket. He folds his socks and then – finally – strips off his shorts. His cock is now free and proudly on display, arching up towards his belly, the head shiny with drying spit and pre-cum. 

Phil folds the belt in half and walks towards the bed. Clint’s hips twitch as he pushes in with all three fingers, not quite ready for Phil but nearly there. There’s no burn, he’s used enough lube, but he’s still tight and he knows it. 

“Ready?” Phil asks, and Clint has to bite back a sob, because he’s not – not yet. He could lie, but Phil doesn’t like that, and besides, Phil’s holding the belt in one hand. Clint’s eyes dart towards it, and Phil notices. 

“No?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. “Very well, then. Turn around. Keep your fingers in your ass. I want you to finish.”

Clint bites his lip, but does as he’s told. It’s awkward, because his hands are still tied, but Clint’s spent years honing his body into a well oiled machine. He’s flexible. He rolls with his hips and goes over onto his knees, but the movement jars his elbow. Two of his three fingers slip out. 

“That won’t do,” Phil tells him, his voice hard. “Use both index fingers. Stretch yourself.”

Clint ducks his head and braces himself on the bed, reaching his hands towards his ass. It’s difficult, but he manages to get both index fingers inside. He can’t push them in very far, but he pulls his hole apart with the tips of each finger.

“Good,” Phil breathes, and there's a sound as he rips the second package of lube open with his teeth. Clint feels Phil’s finger breach him a moment later, slick but cold. 

Without warning, the belt comes smacking down over his ass. Clint yelps and jumps, dislodging his hands again. 

“Tsk, tsk,” Phil says, hitting him a second time. “How ever will you be ready for my cock this way, Clint? You obviously don’t want it enough.”

Clint bites back a whimper and hurries to put his fingers back. Phil still has one finger in Clint’s ass. Between the third and the fourth strike from the belt, he adds another one. There’s a cold smear of more lube, and then Phil’s fingers pump in and out of his ass, sliding between Clint's, in time with the smack of the belt, five, six, seven more strikes. 

The hits are on the upper part of his ass, above Clint’s wrists. He’s face down on the bed, braced on his knees, with his ass in the air. His arms are stretched down under his belly, wrists cocked so his fingers can reach up towards his hole. Phil’s fingers are there, too, filling him up, and the cheeks of his ass are on fire. 

Phil hits him again, two good solid strikes, and despite himself Clint knows he’s slipping into subspace. 

His fingers twitch. He’s not sure if Phil sees that, or if he’s just ready now, but either way Phil takes his fingers out of Clint’s hole and pushes Clint's hands away. Clint tips forward and catches himself on the bed. His wrists ache. 

There’s a grunt, and then the hard tip Phil’s cock pushes into him. “Brace yourself,” Phil murmurs. Clint has just enough time to scramble up onto his elbows before Phil breaches him.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Clint moans, letting his head fall forward, the weight of Phil’s cock a solid rod inside of him. “Oh, Phil. Yes, _please_.”

“You want this?” Phil asks, his voice rough and slightly breathless. He puts his hands, wet with lube, on either side of Clint’s stinging cheeks. “You want my cock?”

“Yes, Phil,” Clint babbles, spreading his knees and pushing back into Phil’s thrusts. “Yes, your cock. Yes, you. _Always_.”

“Always,” Phil repeats, snapping his hips forward. He’s balls deep inside of Clint now, his fingers digging into the meat of Clint’s hip. “You’re mine. _Mine_.” He reaches forward and pulls Clint up, gripping a hand over his throat.

“This is _my_ collar. This is _my_ cock in your ass.”

“Yes,” Clint breathes. Phil’s hand is firm over his throat, but it doesn’t interrupt his air. He pushes his ass back, trying to fuck himself on Phil’s cock, even though the angle makes it nearly impossible. He has no purchase on his knees, can only twitch in Phil’s grip. “Yours.”

Phil growls and pushes him back down, sending him sprawling over the bed. Phil plants his hands on either side of Clint’s head and fucks him, hard, fast, with punishing strokes. Clint shifts his hips on the bed, trying to create some friction, his cock so hard against his stomach it’s almost painful.

Phil stutters inside him, fucking him twice more, extra deep, and then holds still. Clint’s ass contracts, but he doesn’t have enough pressure on his prostate to come. He chokes back a sob as Phil slides forwards and back in Clint's ass, milking himself.

When Phil pulls out, Clint’s hips twitch. Phil puts a hand on the stinging marks on his cheeks, his palm cool against the hot skin. “Turn over,” he finally says.

Clint winces and shifts. His elbows have started to lock, and they protest when he rolls over. The abused skin of his ass slides along the covers. Clint lies on his back and Phil pushes his arms back up, over his head. The tie has loosened, but it’s still tight enough to keep his hands together when Phil lifts them. 

Phil looks at him. His cock is soft, sated, but his gaze is still full. He slides two fingers over Clint’s perineum. The skin is wet. Clint knows he’s leaking lube and cum, and his cheeks are hot and sore. Phil dips his fingers into Clint’s ass, but doesn’t linger. He pulls out and leans over instead, licking a stripe up Clint’s cock.

“Ghuhh,” Clint moans, curling his fingers into the pillow above his head. “ _Phil_.”

Phil swirls his tongue over the head before leaning back. “I want you to be quiet,” he says, and reaches for something Clint can’t see. When he comes back, he shows Clint the black leather belt. “Bite down on this for me.”

Clint’s eyes widen. He pants, but opens his mouth wide enough to accept the folded leather from Phil’s grip. The belt tastes like leather and wax. 

“Not too hard,” Phil admonishes. “I want to be able to wear that tomorrow.”

Clint’s vision almost shorts out at the image of Phil wearing this belt with Clint’s teeth marks on it. His hips twitch and Phil chuckles, bending back over to take the head of Clint’s cock into his mouth. Clint closes his eyes and tongues at the belt, trying not to sink his teeth into it, trying not come. It feels so _good_.

Phil’s lips and tongue slide over him, just the right amount of pressure and force, and oh fuck, he's not going to last. He grunts, cuts the sound off, and then grunts again. Phil grins around his cock. He pushes a finger into Clint’s ass and finds his prostate, then grips the base of Clint’s cock with his other hand. He sucks Clint hard, his fingers working. 

Orgasm builds in Clint’s spine. He doesn't know if Phil wants him to wait, but he doesn't say anything, even as Clint grunts once again around the belt. Phil just keeps sucking at Clint’s cock. Clint gives himself over the sensation, and finally white light explodes behind his eyes. He comes, keeps on coming, and knows he's pushing up into Phil's mouth. Vaguely, Clint’s aware of Phil swallowing, his throat working as he sucks, coaxing every last drop. 

Clint sags. Phil shifts and lays down beside him. They stay like that for a moment. Phil catches his breath and then reaches up to untangle his tie from around Clint’s wrists. He pulls Clint's hands towards him, inspecting him carefully. Clint's sore, but he knows he's essentially undamaged. Phil rubs a thumb along one red line, the skin of his wrist tender where it had rubbed against the tie. Clint cracks an eye and squints at Phil blearily. Phil huffs a laugh and lets him go, snuggling in beside him and wrapping his arms around Clint.

Clint sighs and wiggles back, getting as much skin contact with Phil as he can. His collar is a familiar weight around his neck. Taking it off again tomorrow so they can finish the op is going to be physically painful again. 

At least this time he knows Phil’s going to put it back on again. That makes a difference.

“I'm sorry I got so angry,” Phil apologizes softly. “I told you to distract Santoro, and you were only doing what I had said. I'm not happy that you decided to argue with Geneva in the middle of an active op, but I know you aren't used to having people back you up. You aren't used to having a dom. I hope I'm proving that I'll always be there for you, but it doesn't help when I freak out when you're just doing what I said. I'm sorry.”

Clint chuckles. Now that he's here and Phil isn't breaking up with him, he feels safe. “Did you say 'freak out'? _Freak out_.” He laughs. “You sound like a teenager.”

He can feel Phil smile against his skin. “Shut up,” he says, and bites Clint's ear playfully. “I'm trying to apologize.”

“You don't have to,” Clint assures him, squeezing the arms Phil has wrapped around Clint's chest. “I just... god, Phil. I'm so sorry about Geneva. I didn't think anyone here would recognize me.”

“I know,” Phil tells him. He hugs him more firmly. “What did you do to Farnsworth, by the way?” He sucks a kiss into the skin behind Clint’s ear. “I confess to being curious. How did you get away with two million dollars in cash?”

“It wasn't two million,” Clint protests. Naked, with Phil draped over him, the memory makes him smile. “I refused to kill someone he told me to,” Clint admits. “The contract was for half the money up front, half upon completion of the job. He sold me some story about a dom who cheated him out of some money, only it became obvious once I started trailing her that this woman wasn’t a dom. She wasn’t a sub or a neutral or anything else, either. I don’t know, it’s kind of hard to explain.” He shrugs. “Anyways, I put down my bow and went to talk to her. I told her who I was and who had sent me. I told her what Farnsworth had accused her of, and listened to her side of the story. In the end, I let her go.”

Phil huffs a laugh. “You gave her Farnsworth’s money, didn’t you?”

“It only seemed fair.”

Phil smiles into Clint's shoulder. Clint waits, but that seems to be it. “You’re not mad?”

Phil frowns. Clint turns to look over his shoulder at him and sees Phil blink. “Why would I be mad?”

“Well...” Clint licks his lips. He debates not saying anything, but Phil doesn’t seem to be kicking him out and leaving him, and if he doesn’t ask, it’s going to gnaw at him for forever. “I did a lot of things wrong on this op. I got into that fight with Geneva and I flirted with Santoro. I know you said you were sorry and I said I was sorry, but it's still true. Now I'm telling you that I once disobeyed a direct order not to shoot someone and instead stole money from my employer. I don’t know, I guess I thought you’d be angry about that. I'm obviously not very good at undercover.”

Phil trails a finger along the ridge of Clint’s cheek bone. “Am I happy that you got made on an op? No. I don’t blame you, though. He obviously recognized you and there was no point to try and maintain your cover. You successfully reinforced _my_ cover, though, which shows good crisis thinking. Santoro, well,” Phil’s features tightened, “I liked absolutely nothing about that, as I think I’ve demonstrated tonight, but occasionally things like that happen on the job. I know it didn’t mean anything. You’re not taking your collar off tonight, though. Not until the very last minute tomorrow, either.”

Clint sighs happily. “Definitely not,” he agrees. “The thing with Natasha, though…”

Phil smiles. “Clint. You risked your life to save someone in need. Yes, you made enemies while doing so, and yes, there was probably a less suicidal way of helping, but am I mad at you for that? No, of course not.” He kisses Clint’s temple before snuggling in beside him. “You did perfectly well for your first real undercover op. There's room for improvement, but that's always true. I think I proved that _I_ need some time to re-evaluate how I act on ops with you by my side. This changes things for both of us, but it doesn't have to be in a bad way. Now, go to sleep. We have to get up early and check the files I stole from Santoro. I managed to sneak into Olivier's suite, too, so hopefully that part of the op is done. We also have to figure out how we’re going to set up Geneva into winning the contract and plant a listening device on him for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, shifting happily in Phil’s arms. Despite his fuck ups, the mission will be a success. Phil doesn’t hate him and he isn’t taking his collar back. Clint reaches up a hand to run it along its smooth edge. He smiles.

Phil rolls over and turns off the bedside light, then pulls the covers up over their shoulders and tightens his grip around Clint. Clint’s almost asleep when Phil stiffens suddenly.

“Wait. Did you say – Natasha?”

 

The End

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Clint's mental flight instructions come from this http://navyflightmanuals.tpub.com/P-821/P-8210196.htm


End file.
